The Nature of Fiction
by Theadle
Summary: Louis is a teenager with a strange obsession with a much younger boy. He doesn't know what it is yet, but the author is determined to screw up his life and force him to find out in the worst way possible…..enjoy!


**THE NATURE OF FICTION**

-8- I own no part of J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter universe. I use her characters in a non-canon plot-line with no revenue being made from this work or any other written works of fanfiction.

-8—**SUMMARY:** Louis is a teenager with a strange obsession with a much younger boy. He doesn't know what it is yet, but the author is determined to screw up his life and force him to find out in the worst way possible…..enjoy!

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-8— Chapter 1 -–8-

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Browsing books in the library can be a diverse experience. One's greedy eye can filter for its deepest desires or it can flush all suspicion and rely on intelligence and the pursuit of higher content to fuel its filter. Reading for the sake of understanding is often just called learning, and said goal is uncommon if not laughable. Most authors hell-bent on education are also tasked with the incredible challenge of weaning the reader into thinking for themselves. Educating the masses used to be easy for books, however times have changed and the minds of audiences are often set on auto-pilot with newer mediums like movies and games. For the handfuls of people with an open and patient mind, authors help them explore the graces and gulleys of modern human thought. For the less mainstream, we are presented with the exciting opportunity to teach and give commentary to those who will listen.

With some stories comes the ability to create a new world, but what of the small denomination of people without worlds brewing in their heads. What can one do if he or she has not a single solitary sliver of imagination?

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A few years after I came to the UK, the imagination simply drained out of me. Regardless of all the beautiful things I've seen, no rest-inducing hope has come. Here I wait, sitting on the grand old beach of Shell Cottage awaiting the inspiration that may never come.

My name, for all those concerned, is Louis Weasley. I was born and bred of Bill and Fleur Weasley 19 years ago in the outlands of France while they were both on vacation. It is my astute belief that the day of my birth put an end to all the fun our family would ever have.

I suppose I _should _start out with my parents, as that is really where this all began. My father is supposed to be some esteemed officer working for the Ministry of Magic now, but my dear father used to be the manager of a very well thought-of bank - which is where he met mum. From what I've been told, the two of them were quite a force at the bank. Bill was/is a stubborn oxe with battle scars to prove it, while my dear mother had developed this soothing kind of venom after years of Bill that makes everybody just shut up and listen. Victoire was born first in 2000. Our parents waited a little while until they could get financially settled in the post-war wizarding world.

Grandma Molly kept insisting they were waiting too long, so the process was 'hurried'. Never-the-less, the perfectly beautiful angel dubbed Victoire was born about 3 years after the couple had half-completed their wedding in 1997. In 2002, my second sister Dominique was born. The attention whore from the start, dearest Dominique would think it was cute when mum would tell stories about her baby girl pulling on her dress to be held and fed. Slowly but surely, I began to roll my eyes with poor Victoire as we grew older. Louis the Great was born in 2003, and was a wonderful cute young lad before he learned the ways of the world as his good father rammed them into him from an early age.

It all began the summer of 2008 or 2009. Dad had told Mum what was going on and she had strongly disapproved, so I had to take strong steps through the wet mud as Dad led me into the forest around our suburban home (if such a thing can exist in France).

I suppose the only difference between living space in France is crowded or not at all, which is much like England as I was told.

Father continued leading me deep into the winterized forest that dropped snow on you and tested your grit for all it was worth. For a man like Dad, survival is priority and fundamental to deciding any action. I, on the other hand, was politely silent totting Dad's giant gun in my little arms. I had to hug the thing like a pole and it was bloody heavy, but Dad chastised me whenever I dropped the thing. I never realized why he was so intent on keeping me from doing anything until I recalled my memories much later on.

The forest could be so quiet that it sucked the strength right out of you. Even in my blissful obliviousness, I felt a keen sense of danger lurking within the bowels of this beautiful cold forest as the two of us climbed over logs. Back then, all I knew is that I wanted desperately to leave. Dad would keep stopping and starting and insisting that every sound I made was the worst thing in the world, but I just couldn't seem to understand why we had to sit for hours and hours only to get up and go again.

In retrospect, all that time I thought we spent waiting like prey was actually spent being the predator, but I only saw my Dad shoot out of that rifle a few times in all the times we went. Usually Dad would use his wand and cast some spell I didn't know then, but I tried in earnest to learn the movements. When my Mom noticed me chanting the strange word Dad had used, she came at me full steam to procure the source of my learning experience. I couldn't help but regret what a fight my parents would have when I told her, but that was really not concerning to me all the way back then.

I was stunned by the idea that Dad could be such a slow hunter with all the fighting experience he had, only later to realize when I thought about it later that for some reason he couldn't perform at his best with his little son around. Even so, Dad persisted in bringing me back out to the forests every week for 'training'. The 'training' ended up a hike and a few bouts with wild animals. I find it humorous now that Dad would take hours to hunt a deer, but spend less than 3 seconds putting down a bear that tried to creep up behind us.

A year later, I began attending Beauxbatons behind my already-attending sisters. The third and final Weasley was much heard about around the rather scenic campus the few years I had the opportunity to attend that strange but amazing place.

By the same age of 10, I had begun hearing the relentless fights Dad had with Mum over moving back to England. Even Grandma came over a few times to compete in the massive wars they would wage with each other in the kitchen, or the living room, or the hallway, or the bathroom. These rampant battles were waged because dear mother wanted to be close to her _wonderful _parents, while Dad was insisting that more opportunities existed for the both of them in the UK. This heated brawling of words continued on and off for 6 years until one fateful day when Dad very nearly lost his job at the Ministry of Magic.

After a session with the Auror's Office and a direct plea to Uncle Harry himself, Dad forced his hand and moved us to London half way through my 5th school-year. This happened to be the same year I recognized the existence of the Potter Family.

Grandma Weasley used the quick chance she had to shove my family into every one of the official Weasley gatherings that took place every couple of weeks. Naturally, all the relatives I never knew I had met me when we all had to pack into Grandma and Grandpa's house in the middle of nowhere. There was a natural but intriguing segregation that went on at these gatherings. Men and women would be cut in half first, then kids and adults would be separated next. Because I at that time bordered adulthood, I bent strongly towards associating with the adults.

Only soon did I find that, like my Dad, I felt lost in the sports and bathroom humor that dominated pretty much every conversation the men of the family had day to day. I would watch silently as Dad sat by and smiled uneasily at the content of the conversations the guys were having. I too found myself tired and arrested by agony every time my mother forced me to sit through a droning conversation of theirs. The same went with the kids, I soon found. Young James was only two years younger than I was, but lacked the maturity I would have thought could be expected from a guy his age. James would always challenge Freddy to a Quidditch match of some kind while Hugo and sometimes Teddy would take sides and compete in the brawl. Quidditch often proved difficult with the number of willing players, so James would beat any slightly willing boy into submission for his own fun.

The horde of girls in our family – including my sisters – would become their own social event. Sometimes I was forced to sit in with the girls and listen to them drabble about boy bands or fictional couples among other sundry subjects. I would often be their boy-toy, being used for role-play as a fantasy boyfriend with several of them. My bitch sisters would die laughing at some point when the younger girls would go too far and try to kiss me in one of the games. Like the child I knew I still was, I ran out of the room and never came back. The girls got smarter though; they locked the doors and windows and would make me 'prove myself' to get out.

I will not repeat some of the shocking and disturbing events that occurred in that god-forsaken room. My one guiding light during that time, I have to admit, was Al. My god, it wouldn't be fair to write a single event in my life without mentioning Al somehow.

Albus Severus Fucking Potter was and is the best friend I could have dreamed of having. The poor guy was three years younger than me, and even though he wouldn't like to admit it, was more tormented by the girls than any of us for his feminine attributes. Al was, from birth, a very girly child – maybe not in nature, but in physique most definitely. Al insisted on nothing and rose to no means other than to be left alone. Al would sit in the gardens digging holes, what hobby would eventually become reading on the porch and whatever gardening Grandma would have him do. Al, like me, found any excuse to be alone.

Al and James shared an interesting relationship where Al would comfort James and James would throw around any dick-wad that made Al cry. James wouldn't dare call Al manly, but he wouldn't truly bring insult to Al in any situation, which was pretty incredible for a guy like James. Al would sometimes take offense when James played around when they were young, but Al was pretty quiet regardless now-a-days. The whole set-up worked for James, as he could pretty much whine to Al whenever he wanted and get no backlash. Nobody in their right mind would call Al an apathetic person, besides me.

In truth, I only got to know Albus really until a couple years ago, but we hit it off in our own quiet way. All I knew from the moment I first met him was the excitement I felt in having someone as soft-spoken as me. So I set out to make him my companion of sorts while I was here so I could have company and not be pestered by the family to talk to people. If Al took off his shoes, I took off my shoes. If Al was going to take a shower, I was going to take a shower (no not at the same time). I followed in his footsteps in a way that didn't make me seem obsessive. In truth, the whole copy-cat idea came from the truth that Albus was pretty much a ghost in social situations. You could feel him when he passed you, but you'd turn around and nothing would be there.

I wanted to be non-existent like Al. I wanted nothing to do with pretty girls or laughing guys or Quidditch or even being the Head Boy. I wanted the costume Al had slipped himself into that made him invisible. I was eager to find my place next to him, but Al himself didn't seem to give a damn one way of the other until a few months ago.

Al and I would take one of our many walks (more like he would walk, I would follow like a creepy stalker) down the beach set about a half-mile from the Weasley Cottage. Al would sometimes have his head set into a book, but for the most part I would watch as he gazed out into the restless ocean. Al would sit, gaze, stand up and eventually sit again. I got into a great walking regiment with the boy, as he would walk for hours and hours on end before deciding to go home without a word.

"Why are you following me" were the first words that came out of the little boy's mouth?

"What? I-um…I was just walking with you."

"OK, but why? It seems like you don't feel like chatting, so what's the point of following me?"

I took a moment to consider Al's question, but that alone was hard to do with his dark mile-long stare boring into me like an unforgivable curse.

"I just felt like following you. I don't care about talking, but I wish to follow."

I had tried sounding cool and smooth, but the thought hadn't past me that Al didn't really care.

"Right, so, you just follow me around the house for the sake of following me. At least I can say you haven't made fun of me, but that doesn't make me much difference, especially if you'd rather stalk me like some predator for most of the day. What's the word on why you're doing this? I'd like to understand your fascination with me and my back?"

I couldn't really think at the moment. I was seeing him but not really looking at him. I had drifted out somewhere during his lecture to thinking about the underside of a Quidditch Pitch, and why they still used wooden posts to suspend the entire field instead of just having it on the ground. I had slushed together a response and spewed it out before I had the chance to understand what it meant.

"You know you sound really smart when you talk?"

My eyes refocused on Al's back as he was walking away rather quickly. I hurried after him and turned him around by the shoulder.

"Wait! That was dumb, I'm really so sorry. I should've just said what I was thinking but instead I just blurbed like a fool. I'm sorry."

Al seemed steadied for the moment, but it seemed like curiosity was the only thing keeping him grounded in that spot.

"What say you, then? Are you really a stalker of some sort, or do you just like following the quiet children around the playground?"

"Actually, I'd really like to have food with the quiet child before my stomach implodes because I can't really figure out why I follow him around either, I just do. I'm really sorry if I'm bothering you in any way shape or form, I just wanted to walk around with you."

By the end of it all, Al had a quirky smile on his face with a look that made me think he was looking at a complete dope; so the fact remained that he really was. After accepting my offer, we headed back and spoke together for the first time over SpaghettiOs Grandma liked to keep as a part of her stash of Muggle foods. We became friends that day and only looked back so Al could laugh at me for being so awkward.

~End Chapter 1~

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-8- I own no part of J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter universe. I use her characters in a non-canon plot-line with no revenue being made from this work or any other written works of fanfiction.


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